


Thirty years overdue (what a Christmas miracle)

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Miracles, Daryl Dixon Needs a Hug, First Kiss, First Meetings, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21959734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: Daryl Dixon doesn't care about Christmas, to the point that on Christmas Day, he opens his shop at eight just like he would on any regular day. What he doesn't know yet is that some wishes take a long time to be fulfilled, and sometimes, destiny takes the form of a popped off radiator cap in a very old, very crappy Seicento...
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes
Comments: 13
Kudos: 120





	Thirty years overdue (what a Christmas miracle)

**Author's Note:**

> I literally wrote this over the last three hours because I got bit by the plot bunny and couldn't finish another fic I was working on for you all, so... if there are any dumb mistakes, please let me know and I'll try to get them fixed. 
> 
> Also, please note that I'm aware how silly the premise is. That's because it's a silly Christmas story that's supposed to make everyone feel good :) Don't expect anything overly ambitious out of this!
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone!

Daryl Dixon doesn’t think he has any particular feelings towards Christmas. Sure, he hardly gets what all the fuss is about, but then, he can sort of understand everyone’s excitement over a holiday period that involves good eating. He might not celebrate it himself, but he’s also not actively preventing anyone from celebrating it either; he’s not a total Grinch, after all. The fact that he doesn’t care about those silly tunes that have been haunting all radio stations since at least the middle of November, or the dumb fairy lights and cheap baubles people have been hanging on every available surface, or the shopping fever that’s made the malls all over emptier than they were after Black Friday: none of that means there’s anything wrong with him. 

Neither does the fact that he opens the shop at eight, as usual, on Christmas morning. In Daryl’s own opinion, it’s just being pragmatic. People are just as likely to need auto repairs on a holiday as they are on a regular day, so why waste a potential opportunity to make money? It’s rational thinking, that it is. Anyway, if he really hated Christmas, he would’ve made Glenn and Carol come to work, too, instead of letting them have the day off to spend frolicking about and making merry with their families.

No, Daryl is completely indifferent about the Christmas season. There are no feelings of loneliness or sadness, or disappointment, that he could harbor in relation to the damn holiday. 

At least that’s what he’s been telling himself for the past thirty years. 

Since it’s the damn Christmas morning, there’s no traffic at the shop for hours. Daryl doesn’t have the time to get bored, however. There’s the old Chevy he’s got to finish before the New Year’s for the mayor if he doesn’t want her to get upset, and Aaron’s new bike needs some adjustments before the race next month, and then Daryl also has his own personal projects he’s been vying to work on for quite some time now. While the Christmas day itself isn’t particularly busy, the weeks preceding it were crazy, what with everyone trying to squeeze in one last review before the end of the year. 

Honestly, if there’s one thing Daryl hates about the lazy day at the shop, it’s that even his favorite classic rock radio station is spouting off those dumbass seasonal songs instead of their usual repertoire. He’s going to go crazy if he has to hear _Last Christmas_ one more time. 

So he works without a musical background, humming an old Beatles’ song under his breath, takes a break at two-thirty to have a sandwich, then goes back to it and gets so lost in the job, he doesn’t even notice when it gets dark. He’s searching for just the right wrench in the toolbox when he hears a tell-tale noise outside: a loud crack resounds all over the neighborhood. Daryl doesn’t even have to go outside and check under the hood to recognize emergency: some poor sod’s radiator cap popped off because the coolant overheated. 

Good thing Daryl kept the shop open. 

“Hello?” A voice calls from the front. “Is there anyone in? I saw the sign said it’s open, but-”

“Yep, I’m here,” Daryl says and heads to meet the customer. 

A man dressed in a very stereotypical Santa Claus outfit stands there, looking very stressed, and Daryl almost turns right back to leave him there, but… fuck, money is money, and it’s easy money at that. It’s just a popped radiator cap.

“Oh, thank God,” the Santa-knockoff breathes in relief. “My car suddenly died right in front of your shop. I’m already late for my daughter’s party… do you think you could take a look? I get that you probably have a lot of work, but I’ll pay extra for your time.”

“Jesus, can’t ya just chill,” Daryl mutters, rolling his eyes. “Ain’t gonna charge ya extra. Just let’s get to it.”

The car is an older Seicento which has seen better days. Immediately upon gazing under the hood, Daryl realizes he’s not going to have good news for his jolly customer; besides the popped radiator cap, he can see half a dozen other problems, and the coolant liquid literally soaking everything seems to be the least of them. 

So.

“Man… Ya don’t wanna hear it, but this bad boy ain’t goin’ anywhere today,” Daryl says, and he’s genuinely apologetic about it, too. He doesn’t care about Christmas, doesn’t get what the big deal is, but fuck, he feels somewhat bad that the Santa-dad won’t make it to his daughter’s party or whatever. Especially when he sees the man’s face fall. 

It’s a nice face, too, at least the parts of it visible from under the fake beard. The man’s got the most strikingly blue eyes, pouty lips and a prominent nose Daryl wouldn’t mind kissing the tip of- what the fuck. He didn’t think this. He didn’t just fantasize about kissing the nose of some pitiful bastard who’s dumb enough to drive a car that would’ve been better off at the junkyard. A pitiful _straight_ bastard late for his _daughter’s party._ It’s just this damn holiday cheer or something, getting to him, messing with his head. 

It’s just been too long since he got laid, is all. 

The customer looks crestfallen. “I don’t suppose you know any rental place around here?” He asks in a resigned tone of voice. 

Daryl shakes his head. “Sorry, man,” he mutters. “Ain’t one in this neighborhood. I can try callin’ ya a taxi, if you don’t got no phone on ya?”

“That won’t work,” the man says. “There aren’t any cars free tonight. I already tried. Believe me, that piece of crap was my last choice,” he sighs. Then he reaches inside the Seicento for a big cloth bag with what Daryl assumes to be presents for the kids at the party. 

“Well… I guess I better start walking,” he announces, and the fake-cheerful way he says it makes something in Daryl’s chest squeeze painfully. 

“How far ya gotta go?” He asks despite the fact that every damn gray cell of his brain is screaming at him to _stop this shit right now._

“Well, my ex-wife lives at the outskirts of DC,” the man replies. “So I better hurry if I want to make it tonight, right?”

Daryl groans. Even if the Santa-dude runs the whole way to DC like he’s chased by a hungry Krampus, there’s no chance he’d get there before midnight. Normally, it wouldn’t be that difficult, it’s something like a three hour walk, but it’s been snowing non-stop for the last week and the holiday season means the municipal services are kind of understaffed. Daryl’s seen the roads this morning. They aren’t the worst, but most of the sidewalks are covered with a thick layer of snow that might prove an obstacle even for someone wearing real snow boots - let alone a guy in a thin-looking Santa costume. 

Damn it all to hell. 

“I’ll give ya a ride,” Daryl offers, hating himself for saying it. So what if the guy doesn’t make it to some little girl’s party? It’s not like it’s his business. Dude should’ve thought about calling a cab earlier, or should’ve gotten a better car, or something. But no, here goes Daryl Dixon and his Goddamn bleeding heart, all because some motherfucker batted his pretty eyelashes in his direction a few times. 

Well, whatever the reason, Daryl soon finds himself on his bike with the pitiful excuse for a Santa clinging to him for dear life, squeezing him from behind. It’s surprisingly nice, but Daryl doesn’t think about it. No. He doesn’t think about anything but the mission: to deliver his unfortunate customer to his ex-wife’s place as soon as humanly possible, preferably without crashing along the way. Now, usually Daryl has little regard for silly things like speed limits, but he’s no fool. The roads are slippery as shit tonight, even more so than they were in the morning because some of the snow melted in the afternoon sun and then re-froze as soon as it got dark, forming a deadly glaze on the concrete. Daryl might be a thrill-seeker in his own right, but he’s not suicidal, and especially not when he has a passenger. 

Funny. He’s never had a passenger before. 

Even with the snail’s pace - at least in comparison to Daryl’s usual reckless driving - they get to DC in under half an hour. The Santa dude then provides directions to the right house in the right neighborhood, and Daryl finds himself following them, even though he could rightly claim his job was done as soon as he got the man within the city boundaries. He supposes it doesn’t matter a lot if he goes a little further after having already come all the way from Alexandria. At least this way, he’s sure the guy doesn’t slip on some covered ice and break his neck, thus undoing Daryl’s effort in one fell swoop. 

“This is it,” the man finally says, too close to Daryl’s ear for it to be entirely comfortable. His breath is warm against the chill of the December evening, and Daryl shivers. Only because of the temperature, of course. Not because of the proximity. That would be silly. 

They stop in front of a suburban house which looks exactly like all the others in the lane. It’s decorated liberally with fairy lights which blink too fast in a feerie of colors that makes Daryl’s eyes water if he looks at them too long. There’s a wreath on the door, and there are lights inside, and Daryl doesn’t understand the hollow pain in his chest at the thought that there’s a happy child inside, waiting for her daddy to bring along presents and that fabled Christmas cheer. 

He doesn’t care about Christmas… right?

“Listen, man,” the Santa-guy says softly and puts a hand on Daryl’s shoulder, squeezes it gently. “What you’ve done for me and my kids today, I can never repay you, okay? I mean… I don’t get to see them all that often, my work gets in the way a lot, and tonight is a special occasion, so I would’ve been really broken had I missed it, and-”

“Man, ya don’t gotta thank me,” Daryl mutters, looking away, embarrassed. He doesn’t take gratitude well, Aaron always says that. He also doesn’t take praise or compliments well. To be honest, the only thing he seems to take well is critique, but only if it comes from people he knows are trying to genuinely help him get better at shit. He’s… not really easy to get along with, okay? He knows he’s got issues. He’s working on them. He did give Glenn and Carol the day off even though he thinks the holiday’s pointless, right? 

Right. 

“No, no, I really have to,” the other man assures. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you come with me? The kids won’t mind and Lori doesn’t really get a say in this matter.” 

“What?” Daryl asks, incredulous. “Dude, ya ain’t even know my name.”

“Sure I do,” the crazy bastard replies smugly. “You’re Daryl Dixon. Granted, I’m more acquainted with your older brother Merle, but still, I know who you are.”

Daryl frowns at that. He didn’t think Merle had any friends who’d have kids and an ex-wife in a white picket fence neighborhood in DC. Which only leaves one option.

“Yer a pig?” He asks, squinting suspiciously.

After all, he has just driven a bike in the snow… without a helmet, because he lent the guy his, and he didn’t have a spare.

“Yeah, I guess,” the man replies, chuckling. It sounds amused, but not in a _boy, you’re in trouble now_ way, so maybe Daryl’s going to get off the hook. 

“Deputy Rick Grimes,” the cop introduces himself, and yeah, the name sounds familiar, though Daryl doesn’t think the two of them ever met face to face before. 

“We spoke on the phone, yeah?” He remembers. That last time Merle got arrested before they found that coke on him and shipped him off somewhere less forgiving than the local jail, he talked on the phone to some dude about the bail. Helped Daryl arrange to have it paid in installments. Nice guy, for a pig. 

Santa-dude - Rick - nods and smiles, though the fake beard hides most of it. “So, since we know each other, I suppose you don’t have any other objections? And you’ll go in with me? There will be good food in it for you.”

That has Daryl think about it. It’s dinner time and the only thing he’s got waiting for him is some frozen pizza he hopes hasn’t expired, because of course he forgot that to everyone else, Christmas day is some fucking sacred thing and that means stores aren’t open. The offer of food sounds tempting. But should he accept? Glenn’s always made it sound like Christmas is a time for family and friends, but Daryl is neither of those things for Rick, so it really doesn’t feel right to take advantage of the guy’s gratitude or something. Nah, he should be heading home, heating up that pizza, maybe grabbing a beer to go along with it. On his own. He doesn’t do Christmas. 

But then:

“Fine, man. Just don’t say I ain’t warned ya,” he says, as surprised at the words that leave his mouth as Rick is. But the Santa-cop recovers quickly and positively beams at him, and so Daryl has no choice but to follow the man to the house, squinting as the fairy lights seem to blink all the brighter, like they’re determined to put some holiday cheer in him _or else._

The party is… not terrible, Daryl decides about fifteen minutes in. Nobody pays much attention to him after the initial surprise that Rick brought someone along. Apparently, there’s an old tradition in Rick’s family to invite strays to their table on Christmas, and even though he and Lori are no longer married, she doesn’t seem to be against it. Her new husband Shane gave Daryl a vaguely suspicious look at first, but warmed up to him soon enough when Rick quickly explained how come Daryl’s even there in the first place. So, he’s been generally left alone; Carl and Judith, Rick’s kids, appear to be completely enamoured with their dad, and even though Carl seems a little too old to believe in Santa, he plays along when Rick hands them their gifts and demands cookies in return. 

“Oh no, no cookies,” Lori says sternly. “Dinner first. I didn’t stuff this giant turkey just so you’d all stuff yourselves with sweets first thing!”

“Don’t worry,” Shane mutters, winking conspiratorially to Daryl, “I’m actually the one who stuffed that turkey. Didn’t want anyone to end up poisoned on Christmas day!”

The turkey is really good, Daryl has to admit. It’s one of the best meals he’s ever had and definitely beats the microwave pizza he’d been planning to have, so he’s sort of glad he agreed to come. Even if the way everyone keeps smiling at him and being nice to him makes him vaguely uncomfortable. And there are those damn Christmas songs playing in the background, though admittedly, these are marginally less annoying than those Daryl’s been hearing in radios all over the spectrum. Maybe that’s because he can’t understand the lyrics.

“Shane’s mother is Polish,” Rick explains like he could read Daryl’s mind, “and she gets him a CD with Christmas carols every year, so that he doesn’t forget the language. Don’t worry. He understands about as much as you do.”

Daryl chuckles. He can’t help it. The food must be putting him in a good mood; that and the fact that Rick’s changed into normal clothes, and without the fake beard, he’s actually _gorgeous._ Not that it means anything important, Daryl’s met many handsome men and remained single regardless, but, hey. It’s Christmas. One can dream, right?

Though he really, really shouldn’t.

After dinner, everyone relocates to the living room where they get seated on the soft carpet and Shane brings out some board games. Daryl doesn’t know how to play, so Carl offers to team up with him. They win the first few rounds until Shane decides it’s not fair and breaks up their team. Then it’s time to put Judith to bed - she’s barely a year old, after all, not yet the age to stay up long past dinner time. Lori takes on that task, and Shane goes to the kitchen to do the dishes while Rick, Daryl and Carl finish a round of Monopoly. 

“So, are you dating my dad?” The kid blurts out, looking from Daryl to Rick and back to Daryl.

“Uhh… what?” Daryl asks, confused. He feels his cheeks warm up and he hates that his blush is probably well-visible in the room illuminated by white fairy lights. 

“Carl, stop it,” Rick demands.

“Oh, come on, dad. You can tell me, I’m not a baby,” Carl protests. “Mom told me you like men, too, and I don’t mind. Just wanted to tell you it’s cool. Daryl’s cool.”

“Umm. Thanks?” Daryl mutters. 

He doesn’t dare look at Rick, because he’s pretty sure he won’t like the expression on the man’s face. Certainly, Rick must be disgusted by the idea. Like anyone in their right mind would ever love Daryl Dixon! 

Fuck. he shouldn’t have agreed to this. He should’ve gone back home and spent the evening wallowing in self-pity over some awful frozen pizza.

“Well, we’re not dating yet,” Rick says, and at least he doesn’t sound repulsed, but Daryl still can’t look at him, afraid of what he might see, and this Christmas thing, it really sucks, and-

Wait a second. _Yet?_

“Then you should,” Carl decides, his voice sounding very final.

Rick chuckles at that, amused. “I don’t think you get a say on this,” he admonishes fondly, and then gently touches Daryl’s wrist. “What do you think, Daryl? Think I should date you?”

There’s absolutely no mockery in the way he asks this, no disdain, nothing Daryl could even vaguely take as negativity. Rick sounds affectionate, and warm, and flirtatious, all at once, and it’s so weird to be on the receiving end of all that. Nobody’s ever flirted with Daryl before.

Nobody’s ever introduced him to their family like this, either.

“Why not,” he says, trying to sound cool, like he doesn’t care one way or another. “I mean, I could do worse,” he jokes. It falls a bit flat, because who’s he kidding; Rick Grimes is probably worth a thousand of him, easy, and that he’s even acting interested is a Goddamn Christmas miracle all in itself. 

But Rick laughs at the joke, and Carl laughs too, although he probably doesn’t really understand what’s going on. He’s only seven, after all. At that age, kids are impressed easily. A stranger in a leather jacket can seem just as wondrous as the story about an old dude dressed in red who hops from house to house and makes children’s wishes come true. 

_What the hell am I doing here?_

“I gotta go,” Daryl says, and gets up. 

Rick follows him to the door. “Daryl, wait,” he calls softly. His voice is making things to Daryl, especially when Rick says his name in that deep, southern drawl. 

“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable,” Rick apologizes, and his face looks so earnest, so open and vulnerable. 

Daryl sort of wants to punch him. Or kiss him. He’s not sure. He’s very confused right now. He’s also rediscovering why he hates Christmas. 

“Listen, this was a bad idea from the start,” he mutters. “I ain’t the kinda dude ya wanna introduce to yer family, okay? Ain’t your sort. So I’s just gonna go an’ we’ll pretend I was never here, yeah? Ya can drop by pick the Seicento next week, I can try make it run until then-”

“Damn it, Daryl,” Rick growls, and pushes him so Daryl’s back hits the wall. 

“What the fuck, man?” He hisses, narrowing his eyes. 

Rick exhales heavily and steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, I’m just… I’ve been acting irrationally around you. Don’t know what it is about you, but you’re making me damn unreasonable, okay? Since the moment you glared at me in your shop, I couldn’t stop thinking about-”

“About what?” Daryl asks, and his voice sounds raspy, breathless, for no damn reason at all. 

He’s losing his damn mind.

“About how much I’d like to kiss you,” Rick whispers. 

Daryl looks up at him, shocked, and finds Rick staring at his lips. He can’t help but lick them, and he watches Rick’s eyes follow the movement of the tip of his tongue. His face heats up again. Is this really happening? It seems so impossible. 

“Ya don’t know nothin’ ‘bout me,” he murmurs. It’s not a _no._ Rick seems to understand that, because he doesn’t stop looking. 

He says, “I want to get to know you,” and Daryl shivers at the honesty in his words. 

He licks his lips again - Rick’s pupils dilate, their black almost swallowing the incredible blue of his eyes - and nods. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

He’s not sure what exactly he’s agreeing to, but Rick apparently takes it as permission because he leans in - slowly, giving Daryl a chance to stop him at any moment - and then their lips touch, and it’s just a fleeting, brief kiss, but it’s better than anything Daryl’s ever been gifted in his life. He closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the gentle caress for as long as it lasts, too afraid to move or breathe lest he does something wrong and scares Rick away. But Rick slowly coaxes him into returning the kiss, into pressing closer, into giving back the same as he receives, and Daryl wraps his arms around Rick’s waist, holding the other man close, gasping softly when Rick’s tongue pushes between his lips and touches his own. 

He’s never been kissed like this before. Like he’s something to be cherished. Like he could actually be… loved.

He pushes Rick away so forcefully, the man stumbles back and almost falls. 

“Daryl,” he says, voice low and unsure.

“I gotta go,” Daryl mutters. He looks at Rick a second, hesitating, and then he leaves, closing the door gently behind him, making sure it doesn’t slam.

*

When he was seven years old, Daryl Dixon still believed in the good in this world. It was stupid, to believe in Santa and Christmas and shit, but he was just a dumb kid. So he wrote a letter to Santa. He did it in secret, of course; Merle would’ve laughed his ass off if he ever found out how naive his little brother was. At night, hiding under the bed, using a match as his source of light, Daryl wrote his letter, and then he posted it in the morning, paying the fee with the change he got for selling some tin cans leftover from his daddy’s last binge. It was supposed to be his emergency fund for when there was no food in the house, but he didn’t mind going hungry for a few days if it meant his wish would be fulfilled. He only had to wait until the Christmas morning, right? Only until the Christmas morning, and then…

But of course, there’s no such thing as Santa. The only thing Daryl got on the Christmas morning was a beating when Will Dixon finally noticed the cans he was planning to sell for scrap were missing. Wherever that letter went, it did jack shit, didn’t it? 

There’s no such thing as Christmas miracles. No matter if you’re a good kid or an average adult, nothing good ever happens to people like Daryl Dixon. He’d been doing so well remembering that. For thirty years, he did his best to ignore the Christmas season, pretending to be indifferent about it all, and while it wasn’t perfect, it was working. It was working. So why the hell did he have to go breaking that tradition? 

He can’t sleep. It’s been hours since he returned home from that stupid dumb Christmas party with a stranger’s family, and he feels like his brain is on overdrive, attempting to revisit every dumb decision that led Daryl to where he is right now. Whatever it was that possessed him to offer help to the weird dude dressed as a cheap mall Santa, he hopes it dies and burns in hell, because he doesn’t fucking deserve to feel like this. 

“Like he really even wanted me,” he mutters to himself, then curses under his breath and punches his pillow. He doesn’t understand why Rick Grimes did what he did. Nobody ever wanted to kiss Daryl before and he can get that; he’s not exactly attractive, what with his ugly face and his scars, and he’s got a shitty personality, and he probably sounds so dumb when he talks because he can never find the right words until it’s too late. There’s absolutely no way somebody like Rick Grimes could actually be interested in him. Not the family man who’s so good he’s actually still friends with his ex-wife and her new husband. The stupidly handsome cop who cares so much about his kids, he risked a ride in the dark in the back of a stranger’s motorcycle. 

“Damn it all,” Daryl whispers, and he realizes, he’s tearing up. Great. That’s what he needed: to cry like a pansy over some guy he just met and won’t probably ever see again. 

He regrets he didn’t close up the shop early. He regrets that he offered Rick a ride, and that he took Rick up on the offer to join him for dinner. He regrets that he let his guard down. It was so stupid. He let the holiday cheer get to him, like a damn kid who still believes in Santa, and it kicked him in the ass just like it did when he was seven. 

“Ya never learn, do ya,” he says to himself in mockery, and in his ears, it sounds almost as mean as his daddy. Fresh tears well up in his eyes, and he wipes at them angrily with his fists. He won’t cry. He won’t let the old bastard win. How is it that even after having been dead for twenty years, Will Dixon can still get in his head like this?

 _That’s ‘cuz yer fucked up, ya lil’ faggot,_ his mind supplies in his daddy’s voice, and Daryl stares at the ceiling, trying to calm down. 

He’s getting worked up over nothing. Yeah, so he let himself believe for a second that he could be desirable for someone far out of his league, so what? At the end of day, nothing really happened. Rick kissed him, Daryl freaked out and left, they never have to see each other again. Sure, Rick’s Seicento is still in the shop, but Daryl can have Glenn deal with this shit. That’s going to be for the best. After all, without the whole Christmas thing to cloud his judgement, Rick would just see Daryl for what he really is - a dirty, stupid redneck trying hard to fit in here in Alexandria even though it’s obviously not a place for trash like him - and he’d be disgusted with what he did. With who he kissed. 

Yeah, Glenn will have to deal with that piece of crap car and its owner. 

There’s a knock on the door and Daryl frowns. Who the fuck comes knocking at this hour of the night? And in the middle of the woods, nonetheless. Nobody ever comes to visit him at home. Daryl’s pretty sure his employees don’t even know where he lives. He’s got no neighbors, either. Maybe he’s hallucinating. He’s been hearing Will Dixon’s voice in his head, so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched if he started hearing other things, too-

Another knock. Then another, slightly louder. 

Frowning harder, Daryl gets out of bed and, moving silently, reaches for his crossbow. He’s glad he didn’t turn on the lamp, so his eyes are adjusted to the darkness. He slowly heads towards the door, crossbow loaded and ready, and there’s one more knock, and Daryl throws the door open, pointing the bolt at the intruder-

Only to realize, it’s Rick standing in front of his cabin. 

The man is dressed in his ridiculous Santa coat on top of his regular clothes, and he looks soaked to the bone. At some point during the night, the snowfall must’ve picked up because the layer of snow is now almost to Rick’s knee. He looks pitiful, shivering, teeth clattering as he looks at Daryl with wide eyes.

“Please hear me out,” he says, and Daryl unloads the crossbow, props it on the floor against the wall, and pulls Rick inside. 

He might be disillusioned, but damn it if he lets the dude freeze at his front door. 

“What the fuck, man,” he mutters, and goes to make a fire in the stove. Thankfully, the hearth is still warm with embers, so it doesn’t take long before there’s a healthy flame burning, instantly warming the room. 

“Get out of this wet shit,” Daryl commands, and Rick blinks, but he obediently begins to strip. To keep himself from staring, Daryl quickly runs to his bedroom to fetch a change of clothes for the other man. He returns with a pair of clean underwear and a set of pajamas he only wore once, a few years ago. It should fit. Then, without looking at Rick, he points towards the bathroom. 

“Hot shower first,” he says firmly, handing him the clothes, “then we can talk. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees, sounding strained. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t shower for long, probably just enough to barely warm up, but Daryl decides he’s not going to tell Rick how to live his life. He’s a grown-ass man, he should know better than to risk his health for… fuck knows what. Daryl’s not responsible for him. 

“Can we talk now?” Rick asks softly. He almost stopped shivering, and his lips are red instead of blue, so Daryl decides it’s good enough. He nods and sits on the sofa in front of the fireplace, indicating for Rick to do the same. 

“Okay, start with: what the fuck yer doin’ here? How’d ya know where I lived?” He asks when the other man is seated. He frowns and passes Rick a fleece blanket. Not because he’s worried. Just, he doesn’t need it, and Rick still looks a bit cold. That’s it. 

“I, uh, may’ve dropped by the station to check the records,” the damn cop replies, and he has the gall to sound sheepish about it. “I’m sorry I invaded your privacy… I just couldn’t wait. Was afraid you’d try to avoid me.”

Daryl huffs. Of course he would’ve tried to avoid the man. He still has half a mind to do it. Just not now. He wouldn’t throw anyone out in this weather. 

“You were right, by the way. It was a damn long walk here from DC,” Rick adds, smiling shyly like he thinks he’s made a joke, but doesn’t know how it’ll be received.

Daryl just sort of stares at him.

“Please tell me ya didn’t fuckin’ follow me on foot,” he demands. 

“I could… but I’d be lying,” Rick replies. 

“I knew it,” Daryl announces. “You’re crazy. Like actually, certifiably crazy. You been walkin’ for like… hours. In the snow. You coulda gotten lost. You coulda frozen to death out there-”

Rick scoffs. “Oh, stop exaggerating, temperature hasn’t dropped below twenty yet, I would’ve been fine-”

“Like hell you woulda been,” Daryl interrupts him. “What the fuck possessed ya to come after me like that?”

“I needed to apologize to you,” Rick says, looking away. “I forced you into an uncomfortable situation, I tried to take advantage of you, and I probably ruined your day…”

“It sucked before that, anyway,” Daryl mutters. “Christmas sucks balls, man.”

He breathes in and out, trying to force some peace into himself on the inhale. He quit smoking three years ago, but for the first time since then, he wishes he had a cigarette lying around. Or two. Or, damn, a whole pack. But he doesn’t, so he has to do without, somehow. 

Then, Rick begins to talk, and he hardly makes any sense at all: “Listen, Daryl… I know it’s too fast. I know we only just met today, and you don’t know a thing about me, and I guess it’s okay if you don’t want to know… It’s just that, I really like you, and I thought… It’s stupid, but I thought maybe you liked me too. I shouldn’t have assumed. Hell, I didn’t even ask if you were into men-”

“I am,” Daryl says, then bites on his lower lip, nervously. “Into men. Gay. Like, hella gay,” he adds, in case it needs clarification. Which he’s pretty sure it doesn’t, but whatever. Maybe he needs to say it out loud, if only to piss off the ghost of Will Dixon who might be hanging about around here somewhere. 

“Oh,” Rick breathes. 

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees.

They sit there for a moment, looking at each other, and the silence is only broken by the crackling of the fire in the stove. Rick’s eyes look damn beautiful in the light from the flames. So alive, so expressive. He’s a stupidly beautiful man. Daryl thinks he could easily get used to the sight of him. The thought is dangerous. After all… this can’t work out, right? There’s no way anybody normal would ever want Daryl to stick around for the long term.

Then again, Rick walked all the way from DC for him, in the snow storm. He’s not exactly normal. 

“Listen… I gotta know,” the man says softly. “Would you- would you be willing to give it a chance? I mean… I’m not asking for your hand in marriage or anything, but, you know. I’d like to get to know you better. To fall in love with you proper. If you’d be willing to try that, I mean. I’ll understand if you’re not interested.”

Daryl can’t bear to look in his face anymore, because he’s pretty sure he’s tearing up again. This can’t be real, can it? Maybe he fell asleep after all, and he’s just dreaming. Maybe he had an accident on the way back home, maybe he swivelled off the road and hit his head, and he’s in a coma right now, probably bleeding from his head and slowly freezing somewhere in the woods-

“I just really like you,” Rick adds, sounding almost shy.

It breaks something inside of Daryl, some barrier he’d been holding onto in fear of getting hurt again, of being disappointed like every other time he ever let himself hope for something good. He thinks, maybe thirty years is a long enough time to finally let go of a grudge. Maybe it’s time to believe in a Christmas miracle again. So he does the only thing he can do: he nods, and he says, “Let’s try it yer way. ‘s long as ya don’t get yerself killed on the way to our next date, okay? Ain’t gonna date ya if yer dead.”

Rick beams at him, the brightness of his smile easily rivalling the light from the fireplace. Then he blinks, as if confused. He asks, “Second date?”

And Daryl smirks. “Well, since yer already here ‘n all,” he replies, and he chuckles when Rick pulls him into a hug, and then kisses his forehead. The touch is all sweet and chaste, because they’re not familiar with each other yet. But they can be. They will be. 

Perhaps Daryl will take the day off next Christmas, if everything goes well. Seems like he might finally have somebody to help him understand what the whole fuss is about. 

*

_Dear Santa,_

_My name is Daryl Dixon. You might not know me becuse I never wrote you before but I promise you I been good! I helped mama clean the house and I did shopping for Mrs. Harrison even though she never lets me keep the change and I returned the bicyckle Merle got me when he told me he stole it from that Dawson kid and I only lifted a few bread rolls from the grocery shop because I was hungery and didn’t have money. But I’m going to work it off I promise so please don’t put me on the naughty list for that!_

_I’m not asking for any toys or things. Daddy would sell them annyway and there’s nothing I really want expect maybe a real cool Lego set but I can wait until I’m all grown up and buy my own Lego sets for myself. So it’s fine if you don’t bring me anything like that! I don’t need it and anyway I only wish for one thing._

_Dear Santa, can I please have somebody who will love me? Just one person is enough. Because my daddy doesn’t love me and my mama thinks I’m a niuisance and I think I just annnoy Merle all the time. But I know you can help me! I’d just like one special person who would hug me and tell me I’m nice, and do nice things for me. If you give me sucha person, I’m gonna be good all the time, I’ll do all the chores, and I’ll bake you cookies every Christmas. Please? Your the best!_

_Love,_

_Daryl Dixon_

**Author's Note:**

> I love Christmas fanfics, which is funny because this was the first time in my life that I ever wrote one. Please let me know what you think, and as always, if you want, come scream at me on tumblr at most--curiously--blue--eyes!


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